


one of a kind

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ass Play, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Eating, Come Marking, Cream Pie, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Sexual Content, Filthy, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, M/M, Monster of the Week, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Size Difference, Size Kink, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, ass eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24412954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: “Lick it if you like how it smells so much.”He knows what his Witcher likes. He knows what kind of offerings to lay before Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762969
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1378
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	one of a kind

Jaskier disappoints his mother; he knows this. Everyone knows this. Anyone with a decent upbringing and a sense of class knows this. He’s supposed to be a proper court cartographer. But how could he draw maps of lands he had not seen himself? Traversed on his own noble weary feet? And why, mother, why should he forsake the great gift of his voice? Or deny the longings of his heart that lead him among the people, loving them tenderly for their simplicity, their charms, their efforts, beating on with the capacity to love them still even at their worst, their cowardly, their hateful? Why not map the histories as they’re spun with the weaving of words, the singing of songs?

How could he turn from the privilege of accompanying a walking tome of history that is a Witcher?

He just, he tries, really does try, not to disappoint her too much. He tries to possess some sense of decorum, some artifice of his title, uphold the merest hint of her expectations. He tries to behave himself, sometimes, occasionally; but sadly, all he ends up doing is being perfectly himself and the behavior that follows is the product of his limited ability to mitigate what exactly being himself means.

And he is, in light of recent company, coming to the realization that he is annoying on occasion and, perhaps, at risk of great harm to, if not his fellow man, himself.

Which is why he’s bound and gagged and hanging across Roach’s saddle like a captive princess, flushed with shame and dizzy from the position when Geralt rides into the next town.

Here’s a joke for the lads back home:

A Witcher rides into town with a boy hogtied over his lap.

The Punchline? He’s a fucking idiot.

“Fuck,” Geralt curses when three men rush him immediately. He undoes the gag around Jaskier’s mouth, grumbling as if terribly put upon and inconvenciened, so sorry, dear Witcher, for you to be a suspicious figure this one time.

“Relax,” Geralt warns the humans who have rather valiantly come to rescue him from the Witcher. Aw, there is hope for humanity!

“Wait, wait! He’s my friend,” Jaskier spits, mouth dry and voice croaking. Okay, friend might be a stretch on the best of days, and this is hardly the best of days. It’s a solid medium day.

“Tell the nice humans why you’re tied up,” Geralt gently threatens. Jaskier wiggles like a worm on a hot rock, craning his neck to see past Roach’s blastedly huge head.

“I would not, and I’m quoting gentle sirs, so forgive my uncouth nature, it is only my most honest attempt to capture the reality of my situation-” Jaskier cuts off at Geralt’s low, pointed “Jaskier,” like a fucking command - “I would not ‘shut the fuck up’ and am ‘going to get myself killed.’”

Awhile back, a pleasant jaunt through the woods took a decidedly sour and scary turn. Geralt knew there was a monster afoot in the woods between this town and the last, and had tried and failed to leave Jaskier behind while he went on hunting on a scent trail that left him irritated by its winding nature. Jaskier had followed after him, adamant he not be left behind, promising to stay out of the way. Which, he had stayed out of the way, he had behaved himself, until in the middle of the night when Geralt had woken with a jolt and rushed into the thick of the woods upon hearing the creature’s approach, leaving Jaskier to awake in their camp alone and start yelling for Geralt after it became clear Geralt wasn’t off taking a shit.

And then a voice said “Come here” from the treeline, a rough familiar voice that Jaskier knew, compelled him two steps before his blood turned cold in his veins.

Geralt always told him to stay put at camp.

Jaskier had screamed for Geralt, all the hair on his body standing on end, his heart too loud in its panic while something came towards him, crooning a low “come here, come here,” a lap of words that tumbled over themselves until he couldn’t make out where the noise began and end.

Geralt had reappeared out of the night like a ghost to tell Jaskier to shut the fuck up; whatever was hunting the woods screamed from a distance, a perfect imitation of Jaskier’s cry for help. They’d stood back to back in the camp as whatever horror it was began to cry “Geralt, come here, Geralt, come here, Geralt, come here, Geralt, come here, Geralt, where are you” and Jaskier had shivered in the dark to hear the strung whine of his own voice scattered and hooted through the night: “Geralt, come back!” croaked and cawed all about them.

And then once, a single cry of “Jaskier,” in a dry thunderous voice that made Geralt sneer at the night. It sounded ripped right from the Witcher’s throat.

Jaskier hadn’t been trusted to stay put and silent after that. Not after Geralt spent the whole night waiting for an ambush, growing ever more annoyed by every single thing Jaskier did or said until his very existence was a blight on Geralt’s senses. When Jaskier had tried to discreetly take a piss out of Geralt’s direct line of sight, the wired Witcher had snapped. Hence: the current situation.

“What the hell is this,” comes a tired voice as a woman pushes her way up past the three men. “Oh, Geralt,” she says mildly, pulling up before Roach. She peers around to look at Jaskier who offers what he thinks is a charming smile and then three very intense exaggerated blinks that everyone knows means help! “Is that a monster?”

“No!” Jaskier cries.

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier defends, like that’s the appropriate and relevant explanation. “I have a lute.”

He does. Geralt had kindly kept it from sliding off Roach, probably more out of respect for its previous owner than for Jaskier’s sake.

“I see,” Elsa said, which meant she did not see.

Geralt dismounts with minimal knee-jabs into Jaskier and then lifts Jaskier from the saddle and has him over his shoulder as casually as if he’s a sack of millet to be thrown about. “Elsa, I need a room and a promise.”

“Put me down, you useless Witcher,” Jaskier tries to kick but can’t, and then he tries to bite Geralt on the ass and can, almost can, latching his teeth somewhere more around the hip region. Geralt’s shirt tastes like dirt and sweat and now so does Jaskier’s mouth. Geralt grunts and swats him across the ass.

Mother would be so proud.

The three men who’d previously gathered are watching the two-and-a-half party procession towards the town’s inn, looking wary.

“I swear we’re friends!” Jaskier yells back at them, rummaging up a woozy smile of reassurance. He resigns limply to his fate of bouncing around on Geralt’s shoulder all the way into the inn. It’s not the worst place to be. Jaskier bites Geralt again but this time Geralt doesn’t slap his ass. Must have known he liked it. Just tosses Jaskier forward enough to fit that gag snuggly back in his mouth. Bollocks.

Geralt pays for a room and offers Elsa extra coin to keep Jaskier safe and bound while he goes to hunt in the woods for whatever beast had slain a group of men out on a hunt not but a valley away and stalked them the rest of the way to town, if Geralt’s tension is anything to go by.

“How long do I keep him tied up,” Elsa asks, like Jaskier isn’t even there, dropped onto the bed like he was -- Geralt had gagged him again after Jaskier loudly started mouthing off.

“A day. Don’t let him step outside either.”

Jaskier whines behind his gag, thrashing in his bonds. Geralt pays for three days of stay, a hefty amount of coin for him. When Elsa leaves Geralt with a faintly amused bid adieu, Geralt kneels by the bed and inspects Jaskier’s suitably enraged face.

“Hmm, you look mad,” Geralt observes casually.

Jaskier curses him in every language he knows even if it’s useless. Geralt nods approvingly and pats his cheek.

“Don’t cause trouble while I’m gone,” Geralt orders, slipping his thumb beneath the rag. Jaskier whines, turning his face into the touch. Geralt hesitates before pulling down the gag from between Jaskier’s parched lips.

“You cunt,” Jaskier spits immediately. Geralt chuckles, almost fond. “Untie me, Geralt, you absolute fucking madman.”

Geralt pretends to consider that option before going with “no.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier begs, twisting on the bed, chest heaving. “Geralt, please, don’t. Don’t leave me like this. I’ll be good, I’ll be nought but silent back up. You don’t even know what killed those men. A whole team of hunters, Geralt, torn up.”

Geralt watches him writhe impassively, expression unreadable. “Human hunters,” is all he says to that. Jaskier thunks his head back against the hay mattress, frustrated.

“Geralt! You better come back. You better come back, Geralt. I’ll find you. If you leave me behind, I will hunt you down again. I’ll go get myself lost in the woods and sleep with a werewolf, I swear it, Geralt, and make a big old ballad about it too so you can’t walk into a town without knowing what I’ve done.”

“I don’t see how that’s a threat to anyone but the unfortunate werewolf,” Geralt hums, patting his face again until Jaskier attempts to bite off his fingers. “Behave. Don’t leave this room until I’m back for you.”

He stands to go, armor and swords and his packs and everything but Jaskier’s lute and Jaskier’s bedroll and satchel. Fuck. Fuck, he’s leaving him. He’s leaving him behind, again--

“Witcher!” Jaskier yells uselessly at the door that closes snug and safe. Geralt locks it from the outside, a thump and click of heavy iron. “Witcher! You - You horse-fucking shit-eating cowardly dickless fucker!”

All he hears is Geralt ask himself, loud enough to taunt Jaskier: “how do I fuck if I’m dickless.”

Jaskier screams. He screams and curses and wrestles about until he falls off the bed, left to struggle against knots that he knows he cannot break, giving himself bruises and rope burn. Elsa eventually storms into the room to threaten his balls if he doesn’t shut up.

He stares at her, exhausted from struggling, wet-eyed, like a kid that’s cried itself out.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” is all he can manage to ask the poor woman charged with his keeping. Elsa breathes out hard, staring down at him with her hands knuckled on her hips.

“He’s a Witcher, boy.”

It doesn't mean anything. He shakes his head. “So what?” is all he asks to that. He’s a Witcher, so what. So what - he runs off into the night after some monster that cries just like Jaskier does, so whatever happens to him happens. Or, he’s a Witcher, and they don’t come back for bards, they don’t have bards to begin with. Or, he’s a Witcher, so who cares if he comes back. Or, he’s a Witcher, so what did Jaskier think was going to happen? He’s a Witcher, why did Jaskier have to wiggle his way into Geralt’s arms and think that’s a place he could sleep?

Elsa leaves him to suffer silently. Jaskier attempts to get back into the bed and almost sprains his wrist, failing, aching on the floor and muscles cramped painfully from being tied up. Somehow, he falls asleep. Wakes in the middle of the night, swearing he heard a scream in the distance; a call outside his window; the moonlight fingers beckoning him; Geralt distantly pleading to him: “come here, come here. Jaskier. Jaskier, come here.” The rest of the world is silent save the night musicians of birds and bugs. He doesn’t sleep again, strains his ears to hear what isn’t there, or is beyond him, imagining the sound of a sword fight and something in the skin of his voice calling for Geralt. It’s not him, not this time. He keeps his mouth shut, lays in the dark alone, feeling like prey, waiting for the wolf howl.

Elsa frees him of his bonds when daylight breaks. Jaskier’s wrists are raw, burning, faintly bloody. She drops him off food and drink and locks him back inside. He dumps the privy out the window and plays his lute, coming up with no less than ten truly defamatory songs about Geralt of Rivia that would make him wish he was only known as the Butcher of Blaviken. His voice sounds wrong all morning.

That night, he does hear a scream. Everyone does. The whole little town lights lanterns and candles; the women and children go to a root cellar, the men gather up their weapons; hunting daggers and butcher knives and hand axes and shovels.

Jaskier bangs on his locked door to no avail. So he sits by the open window, wishing the world was quieter, his heart beating too loud, his breath too loud, everything too much as he squeezes his eyes shut like he might will himself to be as keen as a Witcher.

The thing screams again, maybe an hour later. And then again. There’s a distant crack of something, like a slow strike of lightning. Every sound comes thin and murky to him, carried by the echo of the land.

He’s the only one awake to watch Geralt ride back into town, a pale bloodless head hanging from Roach’s saddle, half of a spinal cord hanging down to trail in the dirt. Less like Geralt cut it from the neck and more like he tore the creature apart.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts from the window. Geralt stops below the window, looks up at him - he’s soaked in blood, nothing but golden eyes that match the bloodlust dawn sky rising behind him. And then Geralt keeps on to hunt down the alderman who can pay him through this town and recoup from the local posting.

Two men bring up the bath tub before Geralt even enters the room. The tub’s filled by the time the Witcher steps into the room, looking impossibly tall as he fills up the doorway, smelling of oily bile, of blood and guts. Jaskier shoves him immediately, spitting angry, disregarding the filth that paints his hands. Geralt grunts, bending into Jaskier’s touch.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier curses. Geralt shrugs him off, pushing into the room to strip off his swords and pack and armor. Jaskier watches him, seething, until Geralt’s half-naked and Jaskier can see the vivid bruising taking up most of the space on Geralt’s torso, already turned dark as if someone’s spilled a vial of ink on him, violently stained around his lower ribs and wrapping around his back; something impossibly strong had wrapped its arms around him and attempted to squeeze the life from him. Had almost won the struggle too.

Jaskier sighs, pushing into Geralt’s space. “Stop, stop. Let me do this.”

Geralt’s breathing is just this side of worrisome, wet and ragged with each shallow breath that Jaskier can hear clearly now that he’s close. He gets Geralt’s boots off, eases his breeches down. “I think you’ve got a punctured lung.”

“Become a doctor since I left you?” Geralt’s the exact sort of person to shit talk while ass naked, covered in blood, slowly drowning in his own fluids. Jaskier barks a laugh, prepares a volley of diatribes, gets as far as thrusting an accusing finger into the face of the Witcher before Geralt takes him by the hand. Jaskier had done nothing for his torn wrists and they’ gotten puffy and inflamed.

“What the fuck is this?” He has the audacity to look outraged.

“What the fuck - what do you think I’d do left tied up, idiot? Nap? You left me like a prisoner, locked me in a fucking room.” Jaskier rips away, curling a protective hand around the wounds. Geralt hadn’t tied him that tightly but Jaskier hadn’t taken it well. He doesn’t know which of them is to blame. 

“It had your scent,” Geralt rebuffs, stepping around him and easing his way into the hot bath, groaning in his throat as he sinks in. “I couldn’t have you out there.”

“Oh, wash off first, you ox. Look, there’s entrails in the water now. Fat lot of good a bath will do when you’re swimming in a quagmire of innards.”

“Ah, the true voice of Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, leaning his head back on the wooden lip of the tub. “My reward.” He makes no attempt to wash, just to sit in his stew of hot dirty water. Jaskier watches in stunned outrage as Geralt closes his eyes and seemingly goes to sleep. Right there. With a little strip of flesh floating casually on the surface of the water.

“Are you going to die?” Jaskier has to ask.

“If I say yes will you leave me to die in peace?” Geralt replies slowly, not opening his eyes.

“If you die, I’ll stand over your body and sing a thirteen part hymn of mourning.”

“Then I’ll live.” Geralt slots an eye open, frowning at Jaskier’s angry face. “What?”

What, the Witcher asks. What. Jaskier could throttle him. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

Geralt snorts. “I assume your mother dropped you several times. Perhaps gave birth to you from atop a ladder and let gravity do the brunt of child rearing.”

“Oh, ha, ha. Jokes on you because my mother didn’t start hating me until recently, thank you very much. No, the error of my ways lies entirely in my free-will to be the idiot that cares about you.”

“I should have let that thing eat me,” Geralt murmurs to himself. Jaskier risks touching a slimy piece of _something_ to splash water onto Geralt’s face. It makes the dried blood on his face bleed anew, going from brown to red, streaking like paint in the rain. Geralt’s lip curls back, blood in his shark’s teeth. He is terrifying like this, reclined in the gore of his battle, yellow-eyed, his unnatural complexion stark and cold. Jaskier flicks water onto his face again, managing to get him in the eye. Geralt rumbles a low growl of warning.

“Oooh, scary growling,” Jaskier taunts. Splash. “Oooh, scary face.” Another flick of water.

Geralt snatches him as sure as a kikimora, tugging Jaskier close to him to press his mouth against Jaskier’s, blood and all. It’s terrible, the taste enough to make Jaskier want to be sick, not even a kiss so much as bite of teeth, but it doesn’t last long because Geralt’s digging his nose in behind his ear and huffing his scent in great bursts of air that Jaskier knows are hurting his ribs and lungs. As if to prove the thought, Geralt cuts off with a little wince and sinks back into the water, sloshing it over the sides and wetting Jaskier’s clothes further. His hair’s dark with sweat and blood, sticking to him. He looks worn out, slumped low. Vulnerable.

Perhaps it’s a ruse, like an animal playing dead, a bite quietly kept for the hand that strays too close.

“Get something from my pack and take care of your wrists,” Geralt orders, closing his eyes again, brow dark and crinkled. “Smelling your hurt after that…”

“It’s your fault.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, although he sinks further into the water. “Either do that or get in here with me.” Then Geralt dunks his head under the water, scrubbing at his hair.

Jaskier eyes the bits of...monster floating around, the murky shade of the water, the naked Witcher lurking within.

“I must have been dropped on my head,” Jaskier mutters to himself, stripping out of his clothes and climbing into the bath carefully, hissing at the heat, trying not to jostle Geralt for fear of aggravating his wounds. He’s sure the Witcher took a potion before coming into town; the bruising had already looked a day old at least, and magic was no doubt magicking his ribs and lungs. All his care means nothing because Geralt tugs Jaskier astride his lap, rubbing his dirty face into Jaskier’s neck, sniffing him like a needy dog. Jaskier sighs and drapes his arms around Geralt’s neck, leaning into the contact, resting his cheek on Geralt’s massive shoulder. His wrists burn, the water and whatever’s in it making the skin throb, pain pulsing with his heartbeat.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, Geralt.”

“I’ll take care of your wrists when we’re done here,” Geralt says like an apology, tucking his face into Jaskier’s shoulder, leaning them back against the wooden basin, arms tight around Jaskier’s torso.

“I would have stayed. You didn’t need to leave me tied up and locked in a room. Do you know how terrible that was? What if you died? What if you never came back? Or or, the inn caught on fire. Or something.”

Getting naked and climbing into Geralt’s lap might not translate to most people as proper enraged behavior, but Jaskier had the worst sense of direction.

“I needed to know where I left you,” Geralt insists. “You don’t listen.”

“I would have.” Jaskier thinks he would have. He’d been petrified of that thing, that now very dead thing. “That’s my choice.”

“No.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier. “You never listen. You say you’ll listen and you only lie. You come to me, kiss me, lay with me, and then run yourselves into a blade and die in my hands. I’ve seen it enough, you humans, your contrary natures, your stupid passions.”

And that...Geralt’s not talking about Jaskier. That’s the most words Geralt’s ever said at once too, and Jaskier hasn’t a clue what thread to follow with them, what’s been spun loose to cause it.

“I’m right here,” Jaskier says because he doesn’t know what else to say, and that’s rare enough to unsettle him as much as Geralt’s outburst. All Geralt does is breathe him in and mouth a bruise into Jaskier’s neck that’s sexless, industrious in its nature, nothing but a way to mark and prove Jaskier is there and real. It distracts him all the same. “What do you mean it had my scent?”

“Your voice. Your scent. It got close, in the woods that night you heard it crying. That’s how it hunts, how it lures.”

Jaskier remembers. He remembers how it called to him sounding like Geralt. The own sound of his cries thrown back in his face.

“Everything smelled like you out there. It cried my name in your pathetic little voice. Every breath I took reeked of you. I had to know where I left you, that it couldn’t be you wandering stupidly in the woods. I had to be certain.”

Geralt had ripped the things head off. Seemed pretty fucking certain to Jaskier. He’d felt that impulse to run into the black of night, hadn’t he. Would he have stayed out of the way? He likes to think he would have...

“You couldn’t have explained that to me?” Jaskier demands, shoving back a little and dragging Geralt’s face up in his hands to glare at him.

“I told you I was doing it so I could focus.”

“You’re -- you ass!” Jasker shoves Geralt’s head under the water, punctured lung or no. It takes all of his weight to keep Geralt below the surface until Geralt finally stands up, lifting Jaskier out of the water with him. Scary Witcher face and lots of scary growling.

And then Geralt coughs blood onto Jaskier’s face and sinks down again, Jaskier hanging from him like overripe fruit.

“Oh Melitele’s left nipple,” Jaskier curses, getting out of the bath to find Geralt a second dose of Swallow. He shoves it at Geralt helpfully only for the Witcher to turn his face away with a muttered: “I’m fine. Don’t waste my shit.”

Jaskier gives him the hairy eyeball and keeps the potion nearby, drying off and dressing, leaving Geralt to sit in his blood bath. Relief’s thick in him, leaving him more tired than all that time left tensely waiting.

“I’m robbing you,” Jaskier warns, picking a few coins from Geralt’s newly fattened purse. Geralt says nothing, slipped into a peaceful meditative doze, content in the hot water. Jaskier considers the line of his throat, his slumbering face, the mane of his grayed hair some miskept crown of cheap metals. A sad lovely sight. He dips in to kiss Geralt’s shapely mouth, gets no kiss in return.

“He came back in one piece,” Elsa says to him when he goes hunting for more food, buying three times as much as he’ll eat. Geralt’s always ravenous after a fight, worse so if he’s injured. Potion or no, his body heals at the cost of much energy. He thinks there’s a narrow window where he could reasonably kill Geralt. Does that make him a bad friend that he thinks about that, about when he could slit the Witcher’s throat? It only seems fair considering Geralt can kill him with so little effort all of the time. Relationships are a two-way street, a give and take. He’s just got to be a little more cunning about when he could, strictly theoretically, take Geralt’s life.

How else will he be able to protect Geralt when he’s most vulnerable? It’s not like the big idiot goes around sharing these essential tidbits. No, he prefers Jaskier to remain ignorant of the finer elements of his character, the soft underbelly he keeps hidden behind his armor and his growls.

Ha. Like the Witcher isn’t teaching Jaskier how to handle a sword, how to follow animal tracks, how to find water in the woods or which plants will keep him going, what color clay will settle his stomach, yes he knows it’s terrible and chalky but eat it and be quiet, you’ll feel better soon enough; Jaskier surprises him by knowing how to follow the stars, by knowing the names of more mountain lines than Geralt, the histories of them, disputes about territories; Geralt was there, sometimes, when history was made, trying his best to ignore it. Old as dirt and not the oldest among his kind. It’s bizarre and breathtaking to realize, looking at him as one might the insurmountable face of a mountain.

Some days, Geralt spends all his attention trying to tell Jaskier what to do to live a little longer, to be a little more ready for the next threat. Some days, Geralt recites ghost stories of Witcher’s eating naughty children, the implication heavy as he scolds Jaskier or nudges him towards other humans like he’s abandoning a duck back to its flock. Some days, what little coin they have in town turns into a meal Jaskier wasn’t expecting thrust at him and Geralt saying he already ate. Geralt will thump him too hard on the back and call him pup, fond and mean at once, tease Jaskier harshly as he has Jaskier throw punches into his big hands. Hands that eventually close around Jaskier’s wrist, a gentle and unbreakable grip, and Jaskier will struggle against his hands as he did the ropes, but hands burn a different kind of hot and then Jaskier’s free, free to pull Geralt’s cock from his pants and press it to his own, use both hands on them while Geralt watches Jaskier pulse wetly, work Geralt off in the slick of his come.

He licks it off. Geralt never asks, but he watches without breathing when Jaskier licks his hands clean and then Geralt’s cock.

Some days, Geralt gets to his knees and cleans Jaskier off only to work him into a second orgasm that pulls from his spine, pleasure sharp-needled and yanked free of him by Geralt’s determination, the generosity of that hard proud mouth.

Geralt’s in one piece, all those days together, all those days before him, absent him. Jaskier’s seen cracked pots still hold water, the leak barely noticeable. The chipped blade that’s still sharp but the cut grows more ragged.

He walks to the alderman, knocking and impugning himself.

“Can I see the head?”

The man is one of the three that had rushed Geralt two days before. Jaskier holds his sleeves down over his hands, feeling hot and guilty as he did when he lied as a child, asking one parent for something that the other denied.

“You are his friend, huh, boy?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, not sure it’s a lie or a truth.

The Croaker’s head is bloodless, human if a human had a jawspan the length of a man’s leg, two tongues and four rows of teeth. There’s a caved in part of the skull, in the back. Jaskier knows what compels him to slot his hand into the wound, to fill the ravine left behind by much stronger fingers than his own. He imagines it: Geralt choking in fluid, gasping, drowning on his own breath, surrounded by his scent, cried to by his voice. The viscous unchained violence that is required not only to kill but to do it by crushing fingers through meat and bone and wrenching, pulling, tearing a spine from the body and then some.

He should have puked. He wants to. He doesn’t, washes his hands outside in a pail of collected rain water. Bits of monsters float to the surface. The bath water’s cool by the time he returns to Geralt. Geralt’s asleep, he thinks. The water’s surface is filmy with blood and dirt; it’s lapped at and dried in his chest hair.

“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes him awake, or probably not, probably just pestering him into activity. Geralt’s nostrils flare first, smelling before seeing.

“You should have robbed me and run,” Geralt says mildly.

“I’m either too stupid to sieze the opportunity or wise enough not to betray a Witcher,” Jaskier counters. He thinks Geralt smiles. Geralt heaves himself from the bath, goes straight from it to the bed, dripping, dwarfing the frame of it. Jaskier had felt lonely and small in that bed without him and now looking can’t imagine how he’d fit beside Geralt.

The bruises have turned to green already. Geralt doesn’t close his eyes, watching Jaskier.

“They’ll need the tub back,” he says.

Geralt snorts. “I doubt anyone else craves a bath as I do. Elsa can pound down the door should she need it.” And then, his rumbling request: “Come here.”

Jaskier shivers involuntarily, breath a hiccup. Geralt inhales, despairing the spike of fear, eyes suddenly very wide and awake.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grimaces because that’s just as bad.

They stare at each other, and it’s fine, everything is fine, it’s perfect and dandy, but for once Jaskier doesn’t want to hear Geralt try to talk and his own voice unnerves him. So they stare at each other until Geralt, who never liked language much anyway, opens a space on the bed, sitting up. Jaskier clambers into his embrace immediately, swinging a leg over Geralt and tucking into the sturdy body of his Witcher as heavy arms close around him to hold him close. Geralt doesn’t say anything else, just settles back into the bed, rubbing his face into Jaskier’s neck as he had before, naked and not quite clean but they can buy another bath, it’s fine, it’s all fine. Geralt’s in one piece and sleep hits both of them as sudden as a stone to the head.

The bruises look better when he wakes up. He unpastes himself from Geralt’s naked body, pity that, so he can sit up and inspect his Witcher. The first time Geralt had taken a wound that Jaskier had almost fainted over, Jaskier had sat by him watching it heal. Blink and you miss it except not really, but you don’t believe it. Like watching water come to a boil. The black clotting of blood. A rapid drain of fluid. The quick scab. The tender pink of new skin. And then with each blink, the thinning of the opening, a very slow kiss. Jaskier had vague memories of watching his mother pinch the dough of a pierogi close, thumb prints left behind. It was like that.

Now, Jaskier touches the barely-there yellow skin that wraps around Geralt’s ribs. It takes both hands to span the width of the marks. He only hesitates a second before pressing his palms to Geralt’s skin, splaying out his fingers. Geralt breathes deeply beneath him, groping for Jaskier’s hip.

“How do you feel?”

Geralt slides his hand under the waist of Jaskier’s breeches as an answer.

“I see we’re using our words today.”

Geralt slides his fingers all the way around to yank on the laced-up front, jerking Jaskier across his lap. He goes all too eagerly, always eager for this, swinging his thigh around Geralt as they shift, adjust, bumble about until Geralt’s firmly on his back, Jaskier trying not to grind into Geralt immediately like a particularly easy wench; he is that, a particularly easy wench, the best of them, but let’s not disappoint mother too much all in one go, shall we not?

It’s that thought, which should kill his arousal indefinitely but doesn’t, and that should trouble him more than it does but he politely avoids confrontation even in his own mind, so well mannered he is, that Julian; any, with all that jangling about his head - and oh Geralt thinks him empty on nothing but clouds and prose, so much space for jangling what scant streams of thought pass through him- that Jaskier wrestles up his insurmountable willpower to capture Geralt’s questing hands and press them down into the bed.

“Hmm,” Geralt observes, face scrunching in pitying amusement. He twists out of Jaskier’s grip without any effort; Jaskier flushes and doubles down his effort, making a point and pressing his knees into Geralt’s hands.

“I’m still mad,” Jaskier says by way of explanation.

“So you say, pup,” Geralt teases with a roll of his hips. He’s not hard, won’t be for awhile after healing, doesn’t need to be, just the muscle and bone of him against Jaskier is enough to excite Jaskier; he is enough to excite Jaskier. But he doesn’t move his wrists from Jaskier’s grip this time.

“Stay,” Jaskier warns as he lets up his weight from Geralt. Geralt vagues at him.

“Good boy,” Jaskier tacks on to be obnoxious.Geralt vagues more intensely at him. Probably part of his Witcher powers, transforming vagueness into an entire emotion. But he stays put. For now. Jaskier wastes no time in scrambling off Geralt, hopping out of his undone pants in a jaunty jig as he dives for his pack to pull out the chamomile oil. He turns back to Geralt with a flourish and a ta-da. Geralt’s expression is hot with expectation and curiosity, vagueness gone. Well done, lad.

He swings his newly naked form over Geralt’s, falling forward to brace his hands on either side of Geralt’s face and lean down to kiss him. This time, Geralt doesn’t bite him, only rumbles beneath Jaskier’s languid exploration of his mouth.

“I brought you food,” Jaskier tells him when he breaks the kiss, remembering finally. He’d gotten distracted, not that he can be blamed. “Do you want to eat?” It’s not like Geralt’s going to get hard anytime in the next few minutes, he might as well have a full belly.  
Geralt breathes in deeply, chasing the scent of Jaskier at his pulse point.

“I could eat,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s neck, stubble on his lips scritching pleasantly.

Jaskier hitches a breath but readily complies, always glad to help where he can, peeved if he may be, lifting off Geralt and swinging once more from the lap of the Witcher, a professional vaulter or some such at this point. Or he would be, had Geralt not seized the opportunity of Jaskier’s vulnerability to snatch Jaskier back to him in a rough show of force and desire. Jaskier squeaks, flails, almost knees Geralt in the eyeball as he’s firmly sat upon Geralt’s face without any finesse or delicacy.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelps, voice immediately jackrabbiting high and cracking as Geralt licks him from balls to hole, tongue wide wet and hot.

Geralt’s done this once before, licked Jaskier’s to a quivering mess. It came notably on the heels of Geralt fingering Jaskier one day after a bit of terrifying sword work. Jaskier had almost lobbed off his own foot, the arc of his swing too wide and heavy, the blade going straight down as he overbalanced. Geralt had snatched it from him, his thick leather gloves protecting him from the edge. He’d promptly gave Jaskier one of his small daggers, said something about needing to find him a dirk, it’d be better for his size, let’s focus on speed and not strength with you; he’d folded Jaskier’s hands over the hilt, shadowed him through the movements; all Jaskier could focus on what the hot soft leather of Geralt’s gloves and the smell of Geralt all around him while they trained in a cool patch of shade.

Geralt had the audacity to look put upon when Jaskier antagonized him into wrestling, a poor excuse about fist-fights being better for bar brawls -“No, stabbing and running will be your best tactic, you barely-whelped cur” - and Geralt had done little more than box his mouth, barely hitting Jaskier, and Jaskier had bitten his hand the first chance he got, proving his teeth, taunting Geralt into sliding his thick fingers deeper into his mouth; he had laughed when Jaskier gagged on them but that laughter died into a growl when Jaskier didn’t do more about it then roll over onto all fours and look over his shoulder at Geralt, blue eyes daring and his spit-slick lips a pink beg.

“Keep them on,” was all Jaskier had said when Geralt ran his gloved hands over the mound of his offered ass.

“Make them wet.” And he’d pushed his two fingers into Jaskier’s mouth, let him suck the leather sopping, suck the sword oil from them until his mouth tasted like an armory. Just one leather-clad finger in Jaskier’s ass had been enough to make him come, fucking down on it. Two had made him writhe and whine, panting and sweating half-naked in the grass.

And then, a teensy tiny truth had come out. Because Geralt was mouthing his ass and pulling Jaskier deep onto his fingers, working Jaskier’s young cock back into a second go around because if the capricious brat was going to encourage this then Geralt will leave him too spent to make a fuss later; he’d growled out a pleased promised of “once I fuck you, Jaskier, a human man will never satisfy you again,” more arrogant than he usually allowed himself, but Jaskier encouraged his worst traits and Geralt coveted his pleasure.

Except Jaskier had shuddered around him, body clenching too-tight, face buried in his arms, and admitted with a reek of embarrassment and a shaky voice: “I wouldn’t know to compare.”

Geralt had his hands off Jaskier completely the second the words hit him. Jaskier moaned raggedly at the loss of the fingers inside him, the sharp pull on his rim, his asshole winking shut, red and puffy from not enough oil - no fucking oil - just worn leather and spit that had dried a second later, Jaskier fucking himself dry and stupid and determined onto a Witcher’s fingers - Geralt stared, out of breath, at the tender and delicate body beneath him, the one Jaskier kept eagerly offering with probably as much thought as he put into any of his dramatic exploits like chasing behind Geralt on hunts, walking too close to murky pools of water, telling jokes quietly to married women who thought him as cute as an old sweetheart no mind to their axe-bearing husbands.

Geralt had never felt more like a dirty old man and leaned heavily into his private angst, burying his face into Jaskier’s crack that instant to sooth away the burn he knew was there, Jaskier hiccuping into the ground, not even lifting his face because he couldn’t possibly look at Geralt for the rest of his life after the sudden confession that left them both reeling, left Geralt mouthing and licking him open, a new kind of promise, until Jaskier’s cock was drooling into the ground and his legs were jelly-soft from trembling.

Jaskier’s a grand kisser. He’s excellent with his hands. His mouth is a gift to all humankind. His ass? Oh, it’s been pinched and slapped playfully, whipped by his governess, fondled by the brash and bold, commented upon by plenty of admiring ladies, but fucked? No. Fingered? Barely. Eaten? Only once and now, again.

“Fuck,” Jaskier moans, holding onto Geralt for dear life as the Witcher grips his cheeks with both hands, bruising him sweetly, and spreading Jaskier wide for his questing mouth. A filthy wet slide of tongue just shy of too-much swirls around his hole. “F-uck. You. Geralt.”

Swear to Melitele, this is not what he meant when he asked if Geralt wanted to eat. And yet, here they are, Jaskier suddenly the whole damn meal.

“Is this,” he gasps, thighs already shivering as he tries to twist in Geralt’s grip, “is this you saying sorry?”

Geralt hums, the sound rocking straight to the core of Jaskier. Geralt tightens his hold, keeps one hand on Jaskier’s ass to spread him and slides one arm up to wrap around Jaskier’s waist to pull him against Geralt’s face more firmly - Geralt’s nose pokes his hole while his tongue laps and sucks behind his balls, the stubble of his chin and lip burning the tender skin. There’s a loud sniff as Geralt scents him, a hot low rumble of approval that makes Jaskier want to scream. He rakes his nails up Geralt’s abdomen, breathless, so instantly hot he’s dizzy with the fever of his arousal, rock hard and leaking. He looks down at his own cock, between his legs, struck by the sight of Geralt’s throat, the chords of it standing out with tension as Geralt swallows between a noisy suck.

Jaskier reaches down between his legs, past his cock, and grasps the wolf medallion, pulling the leather chord and twisting it around his hand. It doesn’t choke Geralt, not in the least, but Geralt makes a dark sound and Jaskier flicks his eyes between Geralt’s legs to see him swelling slowly but surely, dick twitching valiantly to get hard. Jaskier leans forward, tries to, wants Geralt in his hands, wanders if he’s bendy enough to get him in his mouth, surely Geralt’s ridiculous horse cock will reach his mouth, Jaskier could suck the head, could push himself down until he took it into his throat to cry around-

Geralt sticks his tongue into Jaskier’s ass and Jaskier loses all train of thought.

“Geralt!”

And that’s his voice, only his, that could sing so high and pleasured. Geralt licks him out, fucks his tongue into Jaskier, sucking his rim sweetly swollen and fluttering as Jaskier rocks against his face. And his scent, that’s his, only his, that smells of potent pleasure, of amber honeyed ale and the dark musk of hot skin, the taste of him a red velvet clench around Geralt’s tongue.

Jaskier reaches for his cock and gets tumbled forward, forced to catch himself on hands and knees as Geralt sits up. A firm hand on his shoulders has Jaskier dropping forward, burying his face in his arms and thrusting his ass up and out. The vulnerability makes his skin crawl like so many fingers have swept across him, a creeping coiling heat locking behind his balls. Geralt kicks his knees wider until Jaskier strains with the spread but gods it’s good, it’s so fucking good; Geralt cups his tight balls in one hot hand, rolling them appreciatively, the contrast of his touch against the sensation of spit cooling on his rough-warm hole making Jaskier shiver.

“Fuck, are you hard?” Jaskier whines, trying to look underneath himself. Geralt has himself in hand, fondling the head of his cock and Jaskier’s has to swallow, the sight making his mouth drool. “Can you get hard?”

“Hmm.”

“Let me suck you, Geralt. Please?”

Geralt hushes him, petting his thigh as he might his horse, soothing and shaming at once. Jaskier’s stomach roils with it and when he dribbles with pre-cum, the feel of it has him moaning wantonly.  
“Irreplicable,” Geralt murmurs to himself. He fucks against Jaskier’s proffered ass, rubbing his half-hard cock against Jaskier’s balls until he weight of him is pushing alongside Jaskier’s own dick, dwarfing him. He knows that the way he feels to see Geralt’s immense size against his own is not how a man ought to feel to be so outdone but Geralt’s so gorgeous, and the sight of his cock growing longer, fatter, sagging with the weight of itself leaves Jaskier panting and fucking back against empty air with base want.

Geralt pulls back and all but thumps Jaskier when he settles the weight of his cock between his ass cheeks, rocking into his crack.

“You’re quiet,” Geralt observes, rough but controlled. “I thought you’d be telling me off by now.”

“And I thought you’d have made me come by now, but we can’t always be our best, can we?” Jaskier snips back, hiding his embarrassment. It’s hard to be witty when he can’t decide if he wants to impale himself on Geralt’s cock or run away for his dear life.

“Hmm.” Geralt slips a hand underneath Jaskier and tugs on his dick, wrenching a moan from Jaskier. “I think you’re at your best when you can’t do anything but moan for me, not mouth off.”

Jaskier fucks into Geralt’s hand, already so close. Geralt rubs up behind him, lazy thrusts that have his dick sliding against Jaskier’s ass, the fat head of him a tantalizing threat each time it catches at his wetted rim.

“Geralt…” Jaskier moans again, shifting onto one elbow. When he reaches for himself this time, Geralt relinquishes his touch and lets Jaskier take over, pumping himself fast and hard. It’s easy to come when Geralt sucks his own thumb into his mouth, soaking it quickly, and pushes it into Jaskier’s ass with a relentless force until he can grip Jaskier just like that, press the rest of his fingers up behind Jaskier’s balls and rub hard purposeful circles that make Jaskier jolt as he comes on the sheets below him, spilling over his fingers.

Geralt inhales and groans his approval. Jaskier swallows hotly, out of breath but still pulsing with pleasure as Geralt fucks him with his thumb, still gripping Jaskier from the inside out like a toy. Inexplicably, his mind flashes to the Croaker’s head, the death grip Geralt had used to tear it apart. That same hand now holds him snuggly and Jaskier knows would never hurt him. He’s left raw and wet-eyed, shocky at the thought.

Still a bit peeved.

But like before, he has a terrible sense of direction with his emotions and his discontent shows itself as nothing but poorly thought plans. He gropes between his legs with his come soaked hand, reaching ungainly to smear his come across his hole, onto Geralt’s hand too, a blind dare.

“Lick it if you like how it smells so much.”

He knows what his Witcher likes. He knows what kind of offerings to lay before Geralt of Rivia.

Geralt lifts his hips off the bed, all too happy to comply, licking Jaskier’s smeared spend from his ass, licking around his thumb shoved up his hole. Jaskier’s soft in his post-orgasm state and his body relents, letting Geralt push a determined tongue in beside his thumb; he trades it for his first two fingers, fucking Jaskier open while Jaskier huffs into the bed, covering his mouth desperately with his hands to keep from sobbing. His hips are killing him from being held open but the aching stretch of his ass keeps pulsing pleasure to his core with each wild beat of his heart and deafening rush of his blood in his ears as Geralt finger and tongue fucks him with a steadily embarrassing increase of wet slurps and squelches all but drowned out by the noisey rumble relentlessly thundering from the Witcher’s chest.

Jaskier feels fucked and used even as Geralt’s committed to not rushing or pushing any limit of Jaskier’s body other than its capacity for pleasure; it’s the same as when he’d first sucked Geralt’s cock, the Witcher so big that even doing nothing, Jaskier had bruised his own throat. If Geralt were to fuck him, Jaskier isn’t sure he’d survive - not without changing, not without becoming someone else.

Geralt was right. Once he fucks Jaskier, no man will satisfy. No one will compare to Geralt or his touch. The prospect terrifies him with how much he wants it and knows he shouldn’t. Wonders too if that why Geralt doesn’t fuck him, never makes a motion to fuck him.

“Geralt.” He barely says it, can’t, can’t catch his breath to. He tries again. “Geralt.” Opening his mouth, moving his hands away, it just lets pathetic punched out noises escape his lips, high hiccuping whines and breathless “ah, ah, ahs” as he’s jostled in Geralt’s hands. “Ger-ah-ahlt. Inside me. Come inside me. On me. Can you - can you come?”

Geralt slides a third finger into his soaked hole, pressing his fleshy walls the whole way. Jaskier comes, not even hard, wound and unwound like a dropped spindle, sharp and sudden and squeezing so tight Geralt’s fingers buckle to a space inside him. Jaskier thinks he blacks out, must, because he’s on his knees again and Geralt’s holding his ass open on his fingers with one hand, holding Jaskier upright with the fingers inside of him, all his weight poised on the same sword hand that cuts down great beasts; Geralt’s stripping his dick, huffing, silent but for sharp breathes and deep growling sighs that build to one.

Geralt shoves forward, popping the head of his dick inside Jaskier’s strained hole, slipping his fingers free just at the moment that Jaskier’s eyes bulge and he opens his mouth in pain because then Geralt’s inside him, just that first fattest inch of him, and he’s coming, holding his dick and holding Jaskier’s ass at an angle so it all shoots hot and wet and strange sick-good inside his body to drip down into the dark depths of him.

He hopes Geralt doesn’t take insult to how he nearly dozes off as Geralt pulses for what seems like hours until Jaskier’s hole is drooling with come, drips of it rolling down his balls and sweaty thighs. He whimpers when Geralt rubs his ass and spreads him apart to look with satisfaction at what is undeniably him and undeniably Jaskier. Of this, he is certain.

The bath water isn’t clean but Geralt makes it hot with Igni, and to be fair, Jaskier’s dirty enough that they shouldn’t waste new water. They’ve also made enough noise that Elsa does not dare come knocking for her basin back.

Jaskier scrubs himself as clean as one can in a literally bath of blood but once he feels less like he’ll leak into his breeches with every breath he takes, he scrambles out of the water.

Geralt’s there to steady him on his shakey legs, gentle and firm again.

“I’ll buy a new bath tomorrow, before we leave.” He dips his head to sniff at Jaskier’s hair, hands wandering down to Jaskier’s wrists.

The water had flushed them stinging red again and Geralt frowns. His hands do so much, make and break, kill and covet. Jaskier doesn’t draw back from his touch or Geralt sitting him on the bed to clean and bandage them.

“Now who’s wasting supplies,” Jaskier says lightly. Geralt flicks his golden eyes at him, down again. 

“It’s not a waste.” He pauses, jaw clenching as he ruminates and struggles with himself. “I’ll use my words next time.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums.


End file.
